


Vampires Will Never Hurt You

by violetlolitapop



Series: Bullets [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Steampunk AU, and canada gets tortured a bit, but those are minor details, some are demon hunters, some are vampires, some are witches, there's some magic and i'm pretty sure england's dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetlolitapop/pseuds/violetlolitapop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fatality is like ghosts in snow, and you have no idea what you're up against.<br/>Because I've seen what they look like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vampires Will Never Hurt You

**Author's Note:**

> characters are called by nation names because reasons. it is an au though.

It's the high pitch of the drawn out train whistle that stirs her from slumber.

Pale lashes flutter open, revealing blue irises still overcome with sleep that blink away rapidly, as though that in itself would be enough to rouse her completely. One hand raises up to push back the locks of blonde hair that had fallen out of place from behind her ear while the other goes into the air, stretches out the rest of her arm until the sharp crack that is her elbow snapping in place is heard.

"Oohh," she groans. "That is much, _much_ , better..."

She jumps from her seat and goes through a routing of stretching out all of her limbs, releasing from the numbness of the long train ride before reaching for her luggage stored in the above carrier. She's unable to feel the worn suede of her knapsack beneath her dark brown leather gloves, nor the feel of the strap resting across her back and against her shoulder once she slips it over a thick beige wool overcoat. She checks her boots, making sure the laces are still tied together, and her reflection to the best of her abilities in the window. She rearranges her short hairstyle to keep it tucked behind her ears with nothing to keep it in place as it tumbles just a bit past her shoulders and makes certain that there are no trails of drool stemming from the corners of her mouth. All of this is done before she finally slides open her compartment door and walks out.

She paces the corridor just as the long mechanical wings begin to fold into themselves, the blots in their joints needing a good oiling if the sound of the creaks it makes are any indication, and scans the window just in time to see the front of the train approach the first sign of tracks as it descends down towards the station. The impact of wheels colliding with the steel and screeching forward as the rest of the cars adjust to the shift does nothing to her balance as she traipses down towards the exit.

"Eager, miss?" the conductor asks with a small smile as she approaches his position, clearly amused by her anticipation to land. He's a short fellow, blonder than she, with very kind eyes and an overall friendly aura that surrounds him.

She pauses in her walk to offer up some brief small talk with the man. There's no harm in doing so since the train has yet to come to a complete stop. In any case, his joking manner is very much welcomed after sitting in a lonesome compartment for hours.

"A bit, yes," she answers. "It's my first time in Ruskieva, let alone Cawlo."

The conductor's eyes brighten a bit, and his smile grows warmer. "For family, I take it?"

"Something of the sort." She laughs. "How could you tell?"

"The country's not much for tourism during the winter months," he says. "Never has bee. Little cities like this, even less so. Particularly this one."

"Oh, are you a local?"

"I am from here, but I've resided in a small town in LeGaulle for a few years now. Though, I don't think much has changed from the times I have stayed overnight."

"Would it be possible for you to help me with some direction, then? My brother and uncle keep insisting I can never find my way, and while I like to argue the point, I'd rather not take any chances."

Her statement gets a laugh out of him, a small one, but a laugh nonetheless as he nods in a positive response. "I'll do my best. Where is it that you need to go, miss?"

Another long whistle sounds out and the wheels coming to a low screeching halt is able to be felt through the flooring of the train. It slightly lurches forward, just enough to signal that it has finally made it to its destination and has come to a complete stop.

"I need to travel to Braginsky Manor," she tells, and his demeanor instantly changes.

His smile drops, his eyes narrow, and even though there is no semblance of hostility in the air, his body does tense with her words in fear.

"That place has been untouched for over a century," he says. "Why on earth would you ever go there?"

"I told you." A small smile plays on her lips. "For family."

The bustle of everyone collecting their belongings and exiting their compartments so they may depart the train breaks her out of the conversation and reminds her that time is of the essence. She shrugs in an uncaring manner towards the conductor as it appears that he is not going to be replying. She takes a few steps before he does speak up again, causing her to face him once more for the sake of hearing him clearly.

"Nobody journeys up there," he says. "Nobody ever wants to. I doubt you'll be able to have anyone willing to take you there, let alone find a way yourself."

"That's a shame," she huffs. "I was hoping to avoid the walk."

Another shrug followed by a half-hearted dejected sigh is her signal that she is ready to keep on her way, only amplified by the way the exits of the train are opened by workers on the outside. Before she's able to move on though, the conductor calls out to her once more with, "Who are you, exactly?"

A brighter grin than one she's shown before in their time spent talking shines through on her face as she mocks salutes and throws him a wink.

"America Jones! Demon Huntress from Albia!"

She pivots on her heel sharply and follows a group of those already boarding off. Not another word is spoken between them as she leaves. It's only when her feet hit the marble of the platform does she actually consider her choice of farewell. It most likely wasn't the best idea in the world to not only give a name that isn't an alias, but her occupation as well. Considering the status of her mission and how it should be along the lines of covert.

"Eh, it's still all fine," she mutters to herself. "Who can he tell anyway...?"

So, with that bit of reassurance to herself, America hitches up her bag and makes her way through the crows, ducking and dodging the cluster of people rushing for trains taking flight or for the lobby of the station. America slides through the masses easily enough and quick as ever, she's facing the biting wind of winter hitting her face now that she's away from the warmth of engines and other's body heat. She reaches into the folds of her coat and brings out a patched up cap with a low hanging visor. It fits snugly over her head and against her ears, keeping the warmth from seeping and the wind from affecting her too much before hitting the snow covered streets.

She by-passes the crowded family-run shops selling baked goods or other necessities for their everyday living and well-dressed ladies in their afternoon gowns, fur-lined cloaks, and elaborate hats who side step away from her on crowded sidewalks and murmur to one another behind their silk covered hands while giving her pointed looks. The gents in their dark coats and top hats raise amused eyebrows, but tip their hats to her upon making eye contact and she returns the greetings in her own manner with a small grin.

Her pace is steady, with light steps, taking a route she has memorized from studying maps before embarking on her journey, all the way to the center of the Main Square. She scans the area, standing stark still in the sea of people and tilts her head up to look beyond the roofs and past the chimneys of businesses and homes. It's there that she finds it, just behind the bell tower of the cathedral in the far off distance; an impressive manor that is clearly visible on its perch above the bustling city, nested in the hillsides covered in foliage and undisturbed snow.

America sighs heavily and readjusts the pack on her back. She steps away from the moving crowds and leans forward with her hand raised in the air. She calls a cab's attention to her and upon entering the back of the carriage, she gives the driver instructions to make for the outskirts heading further north. She offers double the pay if need be as some extra persuasion. She beams her brightest smile at the weary expression, and is nothing less than ecstatic when given an agreement. She leans back into her seat and makes herself comfortable for the ride.

By the time she's flagged the driver to pull over before crossing the halfway point towards the next city, it's begun to snow and near dusk. Though the driver is keen on continuing (not at all feeling comfortable with the idea of leaving a young woman, no matter how inappropriately attired, out in the middle of the woodland), America insists on stopping, even going as far as threatening to jump out of the moving carriage.

"It's perfectly alright," she laughs, already standing on the roadside and looking up at him. "This is exactly where I need to be."

"But, miss," he says, "to be out here alone? I was thinking perhaps your reason for travelling so far out from the city would be to meet with other company, maybe to even bring them back? You cannot stay, there are demons in these woods."

The lingering smile from her face goes from amused to something a little fiercer, showing too much teeth, particularly her canines. Her head tilts downwards enough so that she is able to look up at him from beneath the brim of her hat and says, "I'm well aware. That's why I said, this is where I need to be."

The cab driver, with fear plastered on his face, snaps the reins against the horses and turns the carriage around so quick that America could not help but laugh again. When the cab is long out of her sight, her laughter dies down to nothing more than a few amused chuckles and sighs. With her hands placed on her hips, she gives her surroundings a good scanning before turning to stare at the uphill struggle that will soon be her obstacle. New snow is falling, making it even more difficult than it would have been to begin with, and would certainly soak the fabric of her pants should she step in the wrong place. Still, America takes the first steps away from the well-traveled road and into the forestry.

Dusk settles in nicely during her hike, bordering on full evening and the snowfall has yet to give. America is more than certain that she has already trespassed on Braginsky's land, and those who are rumored to reside on said land should be more than capable to make an appearance in the outside world by this time. A little early, maybe, but a servant at the very least should have been sent to collect her.

"He has to know I'm on his property by now," she mutters to herself and puffs out a small breath of cold air. "I don't know if I could possibly-"

America cuts herself off. She senses a change in the environment. She closes her eyes and allows her other senses to take over, mentally enhancing them as she has been taught how to do so over the years and gathers every iota of information available. She hears distant footfalls crunching into the snow, she smells the clean air and frozen water and the scent of trees and something else... something warm and artificial - cologne, most likely - and she can barely detect the sound of hair rasping against a low hanging branch.

A man then. The servant she's been expecting.

Instantly, America feigns confusion, opening her blue eyes so they look larger than normal and begins to gnaw on her lower lip while turning in every which way as though unable to decide which way to keep progressing. She picks up a quiet, steady string of murmurs in a sickly sweet tone, continuously berating herself for ending up lost when it was supposed to be all so simple. She keeps the act going, even when those footfalls are clearly audible and she can feel a figure standing only some feet away. It's only when a small cough, which is distinctly meant to call her attention, cuts through the chilled air that she stops her ceaseless string of words and spins sharply to face them. Upon laying eyes on the newcomer, her eyes genuinely widen and she isn't able to hold back the sharp gasp of surprise.

Standing there at an impressive height is a broad shouldered man, skin as pale as the snow covering their surroundings and with hair the same shade of light colored ash hidden underneath the pitch black of a top hat, wearing a long white coat that covers everything the slight slivers of a black suit showing beneath. The only splash of real color is the faint pink of a length scarf wrapped around the base of his throat that accentuates the purple of his eyes standing out in great contrast. It takes America less than a second to recognize this man for what he is, and by the state of his dress - well tailored cut and high quality fabric - who he is, and that would be no mere servant.

Surely the one standing before her must be the master of the house, the legendary Braginsky heir who has succumbed to the vampiric attributes in his youth so many decades precious. America has only heard the talks and whispered rumors of the man throughout the course of her career and in the still of the nights of her childhood where England would frighten both her and Canada into bed with tales of a demon that preys upon the unsuspecting. Never before has she lain eyes on his image, other than the one instance, in the comfortable sanctuary of her home where England had produced the smoke-filled, grainy image filling his workshop as he scryed a premonition of impending doom.

It is part of the reason he had come here, dragging Canada with him for assistance, and because of the loss of communication has brought America to this place, standing before a person with no natural coloring nor the appearance of any warmth that she is usually able to detect in living beings.

America softens her eyes and releases the tension in her shoulders as she breaks out an easy going grin that shows nothing by relief. She retains the façade and traipses through the snow in a bit of a rush towards the other, causing the man's eyes to crinkle upwards in amusement as he softly smiles at her approaching form.

"Hello there! You don't know how glad I am to see another person," she laughs. "I think it is safe to say that I have lost my way."

There is still some distance between the two of them when she comes to a halt and receives a bow in greeting to which she offers a sort of half-curtsy-half-nod while laughing in return.

"I will never come to a complete understanding on how I should greet new acquaintances when dressed in such a manner," she confesses. "I am Kassandra Kirkland from Nodnol in Albia."

"Russia Braginsky," the other introduces. "And may I say that you are a far way from home."

Another laugh. "Yes, that is true. Only I've been attempting to visit with my mother for some time now. I finally though I would be able to do so and yet, there still seems to be some obstacle keeping me away."

"And where is it that your mother lives?" he asks. "If I may inquire after such. I must inform you that you have strayed too far from all paths in your journey."

"Did I really?" she asks innocently. America makes a show of looking around herself and sighs quietly. "I suppose I have. I had thought to save time by crossing through the woodland rather than take the winding path upwards to Hove. Not the best of my ideas, obviously."

"A simple misconception," replies Russia with a small smile. "But a rather dangerous one."

"I now gather. It's greater the luck for me for us to meet." She beams her brightest smile at him and ducks her head down in a coy manner. "I would be in your debt should you grace me with the assistance I need for returning on my way."

Russia turns his head skywards and takes a moment to observe the darkening clouds. Once he appears to be certain of something specifically, he returns his attention to America with another polite smile. "It's full into dusk, the night will soon set and the snowfall will only turn for the worse. I'm afraid those are no conditions for travel."

America sags her shoulders dramatically, fiddles with her fingers, and appears completely distraught. "If only I had enough to purchase transport of my own, I would not be in such a mess. What on earth shall I ever do?"

"My home is just above the ridge there." Russia takes a pause in his speech to turn halfway from America and gestures vaguely towards the direction of the manner. "I'm afraid our chance meeting is based purely on your accidental stumble on to my estate."

"Did I really?" America brings her hands up to cover her mouth, eyes opened wide in shock. "Oh, I had no idea! Please, forgive the trespass, I do not know whether you approve of uninvited visitors, but let me assure you that no offense is meant."

"No offense is taken," Russia assures. "Though as I was saying, my home is not far, and if you so wish, I would be willing to give you board for the night."

"But will that not be an inconvenience?"

"Not at all. In fact, I'm most certain my sisters will be thrilled to have female company. A brother can only be entertaining for so long."

"I would be glad to keep your sisters' company. Since my mother left Albia, I too have been starved of a female audience. It would be a pleasure, of course."

Russia sidesteps and graciously offers America to fall in place with him. With a large grin, she takes a step forward, and side by side, Russia leads them back to a semi-cleared road and the begin to pace forward towards his home. They reach the manor after an impressive stream of questions is asked of her. All of which America falsifies information for seamlessly, and upon arrival, she cannot help an awe like feeling swell within her.

It's not the size of the structure that strikes a chord within her, grand as it may be, but rather the design of the architecture. Four levels occupying a space that appears to be much smaller from the distance, all composed of red brick work to a dull yet still charming color from the ages of weathering against the elements. The old turrets and stone parapets of wall walks are still visible among the shingled peaks and slopes of added roofing throughout the generation. The wooden frame of windows have been kept as they would be of the original design, displayed openly with many an arrow slit hidden in the nooks and crannies of the walls.

There's no denying the beauty, and it's through America's own romantic creativity does she envision a drawbridge an moat that must have been a part of the home at one point in time, unable to refrain from smiling as thoughts of the childlike games her brother and herself would have imagined in their years of growing runs through her mind.

"It's beautiful," she says in complete honesty. America turns her head to catch her companion's eye, and as she does she is surprised to see utter contentment fill them.

"Thank you," the man replies. "It's a great relief to have my home to your approval."

He offers her his arm with an easy grin and she takes his offer despite the canniness of the action. She feels the ungodly chill of his skin seep through his coat and even through the thick leather of her gloves. America briefly wonders if the weather has any say in the matter as Russia leads the two of them through the stone-cobbled walkway surrounded by overgrown flowerbeds and a slightly unkempt lawn. While the state of his garden should have been off-putting, declaring a sort of something or other on his character, America can't help but find it morbidly enchanting when in contrast to the manor before them.

They stride up the walkway at a leisurely place, one step at a time. As they walk onto the front platform leading to the front entrance, the main door leading into the grand home is opened from the inside, revealing a small and timid looking young man with mousey brown hair. His wide green eyes carry slightly dark circles below that stand out entirely against his pale skin. He's dressed in plain work clothes and while ready to meet them, he does appear uneasy at the very sight of America.

"Master Russia," he greets. "I- You have brought a guest."

Russia does not address the statement immediately. Rather than give his servant any attention, he passes him entirely. He enters his home in a manner that America is quick to copy lest she fall out of favor. It's only when they are both situated comfortable within the entrance hall and already shedding his outer layer of clothing does Russia bother with his staff.

"Lithuania," he begins, "This is Miss Kassandra Kirkland, and I expect her to be treated with any and all forms of courteousness for the duration of her stay."

"Of course," is his reply, and immediately does his attention snap in America's direction and bows. "Miss Kirkland, I am more than happy to assist you in acquiring anything you may need to accommodate your stay."

Not a stickler for formalities, America does her best to reiterate a word of thanks and appreciation along just as Russia turns from them towards the direction of the staircase. His eyes curve upwards with his smile and America follows his line of vision to see a well-endowed woman dressed in dark blue descend the richly carpeted steps from the opposite side of the room.

She's fair in complexion, as well as fair in face. America isn't certain if she's seen a more beautiful woman, even with her hair worn plainly in a single braid wrapped around her head, it does nothing but allow her features to shine most prominently.

"Brother," she greets. "We have a guest?"

"Yes," replies Russia. "Ukraine, this is Miss Kassandra Kirkland. Miss Kirkland, allow me to introduce you to my sister, Ukraine."

Ukraine curtsies and America returns the gesture.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she says, and America again, returns the sentiment.

From there’s she’s taken to a sitting room, where after Russia leaves her company, Ukraine acts as her host and the conversation they have is mild, mostly regarding their interests and the weather.

It’s in this time, when she’s being served tea and a refreshment that America goes over what she has read before embarking on this mission. She did not look over the sheets regarding the servants more than once. She knows them by name – Misters Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia – how long they have been in servitude, and that they are no longer mortal. They pose no danger, though she has only seen the two, she does briefly wonder what Latvia Galante is like, perhaps she’ll see later.

Ukraine Braginsky, is labeled dangers for the simple fact of her species, though she has been called docile. America readily believes the claim. She talks much of her garden, of how she wishes to keep pets, and how she particularly enjoys sunny days. She does not say it, but she is not very good at masking her emotions and America can tell that she refrains for saying how much she must wish to enjoy them. It’s enough to feel some pity for her.

It’s nearly an hour later when a third party joins them. She’s a tiny creature, very pale and fragile looking. Her long hair is left loose and she dresses in a deep red gown with many folds and accented with black lace. The color causes her complexion to be paler in appearance, America is sure, though perhaps in the way her sister regards the sun, this one is more inclined to the night.

“Sister,” Ukraine greets. “We have a guest, isn’t that wonderful? Please, Miss Kirkland, this is my sister Belarus. Sister, this is Kassandra Kirkland from Albia.”

America already knows her. Belarus Braginsky’s file is only a little less grand than her brother’s. She has already come into this house knowing to be wary of the youngest of the siblings as she is known for her violent temper in their ranks. At first, she had meant to act with much civility while in disguise, but the clear look of disdain sent her way as well as the sneer showing boldly on the other’s face when being introduced shows an immediate dislike.

This is clearly not going to be easy…

“Brother has sent me to announce that dinner is being served,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

America by all means has the right to appear put off, and from the looks of it Ukraine is not at all pleased with her behavior.

“Belarus, please,” she pleads but it falls on deaf ears.

She is gone in an instant, and America is ready to comfort Ukraine and excuse the slight for her benefit as she sags into her seat. She is not given the opportunity though. She rises soon after, and America follows suit. They both make their way to the dining room with Ukraine apologizing for her sister’s behavior and America dismisses the event. By the time they take their seats, they are fast friends again.

When they are seated, Russia joins them only seconds later. As for Belarus, it is nearly ten minutes later before they can dine.

“I sent you to fetch your sister and our guest,” says Russia. “You should have been the first to arrive, Belarus, it’s quite rude.”

“Now, there’s no reason to quarrel in front of our guest.” Ukraine does her best to placate the situation. “I’m sure she has been preoccupied with something of great importance. Belarus, is that right?”

“I have been in the kitchen,” is all she says, and holds America’s gaze as she answers.

There is something in that statement that she does not like one bit, but without any real reason to comment on it, America lets it go.

Instead, when the opportunity arises she continues the conversation with Ukraine from before and comes to find that she may genuinely be interested in her as their talk grows more personal despite the added company.

“But you are so far from home,” Ukraine says. “And in such a small town, why on earth would travel out here?”

“To visit my mother, of course,” America laughs. “It has been so long since I have seen her, and letters are not enough anymore. It was quite spontaneous, I will admit.”

The answer amuses the older two, but she gets no small laugh from the youngest sitting across from her.

"What respectable young lady does not live with her mother?" asks Belarus.

The question catches America off-guard slightly and she takes a moment to refrain for making a sardonic comment on the insinuation of her upbringing, which as always bears some commentary to her mother's skills as such. While America may have lost such a figure early in her life, it's the principle of the matter.

She takes a quick sip of her glass and as she sets it back on the table top gently says, "My mother's husband did not take kindly to me. It was decided for me to stay with my uncle and younger brother, and it's been a very agreeable situation for all parties."

The table goes silent. From the corner of her eye, America can see the pointed stare Russia gives his sister. Though if anything, it only has the distasteful look she gives America grow all the more.

"Your mother has taken to remarry, then?" Ukraine politely asks.

America happily turns her attentions towards the eldest. "Yes, and it has been a good match for her. We are all pleased.”

From then on the conversation is kept light, and while the youngest member of this family continues to make her dislike for America well known throughout, another argument does not come from it. When the plates have been cleared, and an hour or so has been spent playing charades in an unused parlor meant for entertainment, Ukraine is asked to show America to her room. It’s only here that America remembers what it is her hosts really are, and despite the hospitality being shown to her, she is on a mission and must remember such.

Russia takes her hand before she leaves the room. America’s heart nearly skips a beat at the sudden form of familiarity, and she’s near pulling it back as quickly as it’s taken into her hold if wasn’t for her sudden remembrance of discretion.

He places a soft kiss to the back of her palm, and wishes her a good night. She thanks him, and does not comment on the door slamming behind them from where Belarus has disappeared through.

When they reach her room, America thanks Ukraine for her hospitality and keeps the grateful smile plastered on her face until the other woman closes the door behind her. America sighs the moment she is finally alone. In all honesty, she has nothing against Ukraine, who has been nothing but kind to her from the second they have been introduced and genuinely seems to be a considerate individual despite the status of her mortality. All things considered, for such a kind woman, America has no qualms in befriending her had the situation been different. Belarus on the other hand... Well, America certainly wouldn't mind coming across her in a fight, anything for an opportunity to wipe the persistent dirty look she'd given her all through dinner off from the youngest face.

America shakes her head clear of the thoughts. There's no sense in entertaining such notions, as amusing as they may be, not when there's work to be done. She crosses to her luggage and hoists it onto the large bed provided, digging through the contents of spare clothing and food rations at once for the black bag buried beneath. Once she finds it, she opens it immediately and can't help the small smile at her beloved weaponry, a very specific set that England had crafted for her, the same one that Canada had helped with her training with becoming accustomed.

It's with these memories that cause her to be more determined as she lines the inside of her coat with wooden stakes, that fuels her purpose in placing herself in such a dangerous place as she loops in her holster to her belt with loaded pistol and attaches other instruments for her disposal. She sheaths a hunting blade into her boot, careful to tuck it into the folds of leather kept between the sturdy cotton of her trousers and the lacings. She loops a lengthy piece of rope into her belt, tucks a few vials of holy water into her back pockets, and climbs on top of the bed. She positions herself with her back straight up against the headboard, keeps her eyes fixed on the door, and waits...

and waits...

and waits...

and waits...

and waits for hours on end, until it nears dawn, and despite the slight drooping of her eyelids, she forces herself to remain alert and completely focused. America rises from her position and with quiet steps, makes her way for the door.

She opens it, swiftly and with minimum sound, and listens for any movement. America hears nothing but the sound of hallway torches flickering as their embers begin to die and small drips of water from the morning dew of moss growing in the edging of the ceiling hit the stone flooring. She takes a cautious step out of the confines of the bedroom, anticipating some sort of premeditated ambush should she leave the chamber earlier than anticipated. When nothing of the kind occurs, America emerges completely and shuts the door.

There's still so very little light, and using her instincts, America reaches for a set of spectacles with many different shades of lenses attached from her belt and hooks them behind her ears none too delicately. She flips through the lenses, selects the pair that enables her to see through the darkness more clearly and cautiously, she moves through the memorized corridors, finding her way back to the foyer with using the main staircases and instantly makes for the same route that was used for the dining room. She branches off to search for the kitchens, thinking (highly suspecting) that it will lead her to be where it is she needs.

Suddenly though, she hears voices, Lithuania and Estonia to be precise and looks for somewhere to hide. She instantly finds a hanging tapestry, and there being not much else for options, lifts the side of it and dashes behind. Once there, America is pleasantly surprised to find that behind the tapestry is an alcove nicked into the wall deep enough to emerge herself completely in shadow and does so hastily.

"I wish Miss Ukraine was not so self-conscious of eating in front of the others," she hears Estonia sigh. "The cleaning would be a lot easier."

"They were going to be messy today in any case," Lithuania says, resigned. "You must remember, their breakfast consisted of actual food."

"Yes, Miss Belarus was not at all happy about that."

"And is not still." Lithuania sighs this time, from what she gathers. "That poor boy does not deserve such treatment."

"Neither does Latvia, she should not force him to bear witness to her cruelty."

"She will have to let him go soon. Dawn is nearing, she'll need to ready herself for sleep."

Their footsteps echo away, along with their soft mutterings, unaware of where America stood as she attempted to regain her collected calm. She couldn't help over thinking what she has just overheard though, the fact that they only mentioned one individual instead of two. One. Not two.

_That poor boy..._

There's a sudden rush of white noise flushing America's ears and she has to clamp over them to dull it out, keep from overloading her senses because even if what she fears is actually true there is still someone who needs her.

America breaks away from her hiding place and sprints down the hallway to where she had first heard the two emerge. She finds it easily enough, an expansive kitchen meant to hold a multitude of servants scrubbed within an inch of its life and yet still had the heady scent of blood thick in the air and clinging to the hardwood floor. She almost gags on it, but continues to press forward, looking for something that'll give it away.

She comes to a complete stop in the very center of the room, closes her eyes, and forces herself past the one aspect of her senses that is being overwhelmed. She remains quiet and vigilant, forcing her hearing to pick up every little sound, ever drip of water, ever scurrying rodent, every insect that twitches, everything, waiting, for that one sound. She knows it's here, it has to be here, and Belarus was too smug at the table when relaying her location.

That in itself should be a cause for worry, all things considering. America's identity and direct relation to whom she's seeking shouldn't be well known, and if America would stop to think it over, she could realize that there had been something wrong in that expression, that its arrogance stemmed from the obvious conclusion that it held far too much information.

She doesn't though. No, America does not think any of this over, because there! That's the sound!

It's a scream.

There, right beneath the floorboards, it's underneath!

America drops to the floor, crawling on hands and knees and searches, pressing her palms flat against the surface in search of hollow space. The grains of wood press into her skin, and below them she can sense the stone foundation, the heavy feel of rock sifting through the boards resting on top and uses that to find her way. She shimmies, careful not to rush lest she overlook a telling piece of evidence. It takes several minutes and a lot of covered ground, but America finally does find something, and when she knocks lightly against it only to hear the dull echo of empty space beneath, she readjusts the lenses on her glasses to study the boards in search of an entrance. Upon lifting the floorboards away, America finds a stone staircase spiraling downwards and does not hesitate in taking the first step.

It's colder the further down she travels, and the chill is bitter enough to be comparable to the snowfall just outside. When she comes to the landing, she finds herself in a small corridor. She’s grown accustomed to the vision and her focus grows sharper behind her lenses. She immediately spots the door left open off to the side. There’s no mistake that the scream she’s heard earlier comes from there.

America approaches carefully, her senses on fully alert, and peers into the room.

Inside is a large chamber made entirely from stone. It houses an array of torture devices she’s only seen in text books during her training days and in store rooms of Headquarters, but never those collected for… personal use. She adjusts her lenses, brings down a certain pair and isn’t able to hold back a gasp at the sight of brightly lit splatters that cover not only the machines, but the floor, the walls, and – because of one curious look upwards – the ceiling.

From further back there is the sound of chains rattling, and a soft groan accompanies. It reminds her why she’s here, and there certainly is no time to stand around morbidly marveling at the bloodshed that has happened here. She fixes her glasses again, reverting them back to normal so as to not be distracted, and steps into the room.

Her footstep is light, and yet echoes slightly all the same. It has her pause and rethink her course of action, but her senses show that she is alone in this room save for the other person in obvious need of rescuing. The comfort is shallow at best, and yet it keeps her going.

She walks lightly and quickly. She’s only halfway through the room when she finally spots the hanging figure against the wall. The shackles latched around his wrist dangle from the ceiling, short enough to keep his impressive height from reaching the floor. The wounds dragged down his chest right down to his hips are still bleeding. He’s been left half dressed, dirty, and for the second time that night America gasps because there is no denying who this person is. She would recognize him anywhere.

Afterwards her own discretion is thrown aside. America breaks out into a sprint and is at a loss as to what to do when she finds herself in front of the bloodied body of her brother. She moves to cup his cheek and her heart breaks when he flinches from her touch.

“Canada,” she whispers. “Canada, it’s me. It’s America. I came looking for you.”

America watches as his dried, cracked lips part. She doesn’t know to what forms of torture he’s been subjected, but the fact that her little brother is unable to lift his head ignites a personal rage against her hosts. This is not something she will easily let go, not even when they will find themselves back home, safe and sound.

“America,” he finally says.

His voice is grainy and hoarse. It’s like sandpaper to America’s ears and nearly has her tear up.

“No,” he chokes out and sounds as if he’s holding back a sob. “Not again. I’m not- not gonna fall for it again.”

“No,” she says urgently. “No. No, no, no, no, it’s me. It’s me, Canada, it’s me. The council lost your trace, the last scroll England had sent was an SOS, but they were not able to locate either of you. They declared you’d been taken, and were not going to send rescue. So I came. I came looking for you, and I’m sorry I took so long. Canada, it’s me please.”

She takes her brother’s face into her hands, lifts his head, and touches every bit of him. She doesn’t know if he’ll be able to see her in the darkness. She looks around in desperation for some kind of torch, anything that would give them light, but finds nothing there.

It’s an amateur mistake to make, and having as much experience every instinct in her is yelling at her but she lets Canada go and removes her glasses. She places the as carefully as she can on the bridge of her brother’s nose.

“Can you see me?” she asks. “Canada, you know these are mine, you know this is me. Wait.”

She fumbles with the front of her shirt. She undoes the first couple of buttons and reaches in to pull out a small wooden ornament hanging from a new gold chain. America holds it carefully between two fingers and cups her brother’s chin, making him look at it.

“Mom’s charm,” she says. “What she kept around her before she died. You remember when she gave it to me, you know that I never take it off. Canada?”

Canada’s lips part again and he takes in a shaky breath. She isn’t able to see his eyes tear up but she does see the few that spill over and fall down his cheeks.

“America… America, they… Uncle England…”

“Where is he?” she asks and lets him go. His head drops once more but she can’t really do much when having to move in the dark now. She unzips a pouch and feels through for her lock pick. It’ll be much harder now without her vision, but not totally impossible. “Where’s England?”

“He’s dead, America. Uncle England’s dead.”

America pauses. The lock pick is in her hand but she can’t bring herself to move. Her eyes dart to look to Canada, who in turn has revived if only enough to lift his own head and hold it up.

“He’s dead,” she repeats. “Dead… You’re sure.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t do anything, I tried but she’s quick and- She’s back! America, she’s back!”

Because she has been so focused on not only rescuing her brother, but with the news of England’s death have kept her distracted enough that she hasn’t even been paying attention to what may be lurking in the shadows around them. America is just barely able to duck away in time to avoid what sounds like a dagger slicing through the air. She may not have the clear vision she had with her glasses, but Belarus is pale enough in the darkness of the room that she has a small glow to her, and for that America is thankful.

It will make this fight a little easier.

From her back pocket, America brings forth the vials of holy water and uncaps them with her thumbs. Silently, and quite vicious looking, Belarus comes at her directly for an attack. America unleashes the water on to her. There’s a loud hissing noise as well as the sudden stench of burnt flesh as the water makes contact with the back of her hand. She had been aiming for the vampire’s face, but Belarus had been quick in shielding herself and does not seem at all fazed by the painful red splotch marring her porcelain skin.

“If that is the best you are able to do,” she says. “Then I have already won.”

America reaches for the pistols resting in their holsters. With the both firmly in her hold, she clicks back the hammer of each one.

“My career would be in serious trouble if that was all I could do.”

She can see Belarus’ lip pull back in a dangerous smirk. She shows off a fang, and pulls into a snarl as she lunges once more.

If it’s one aspect in her field work that America has always been proud of it’s her marksmanship. Top of her class, and proficient in action, she rarely misses her target. However, Belarus Braginsky, for all she has read on the woman, is a lot more dexterous and has more speed to her then she has accounted. No matter the predictions she makes, America is unable to hit her as a target.

The bullets hit the stone floor as she dodges each on and approaches. America makes use of the many objects hidden in the room. Her determination in itself is enough for her to force her eyes to adjust to these conditions, she honestly believes that it is her will that allows her to sense where things are located. She crouches behind a large coffin like item, most likely an iron maiden, and waits for her attack.

Her ammunition is limited, there will not be enough time to reload, she knows. So, she’ll make the best of what she can.

Belarus creeps upon her from the opposite side, and it’s near sheer dumb luck that America spots her from the corner of her eye. With the dagger hanging above her, she makes to have it come crashing down. America kicks out from under her, catches the other woman in surprise and sends her falling backwards. The blade catches on her trousers, tears a large gash down the side and rips open her skin. The metallic scent of blood fills the air and a low growl fills the room.

America takes Belarus’ distraction and fires off at her. She does not hit where she meant to target, but with her slowed reflexes one does catch into her shoulder and is lodged there if Belarus’ shrieks are to go by anything.

“I will kill you!” she screams.

Her wail is piercing as she tears into her own flesh. America’s bullets will not kill her instantly, but the silver will burn into her and fill her with toxins that left will do major harm. While she goes about trying to remove it, America stands. She reaches in and grabs her own dagger from the inside of her boot. She grips it tight, and she charges.

Belarus does not miss this. She halts her own movements to reach into the folds of her gown and unleashes a small army of miniature knives. One nicks the side of her face, another lands into her thigh, but America is able to fend off the rest. She aims for her heart, Belarus comes to block. Both daggers are locked and their eyes narrow into one another’s.

“I will kill you,” she promises. “

“I haven’t lost a fight yet,” America tells her. “You sure as all are not gonna be my first!”

“Don’t be so arrogant!”

Belarus throws her back and charges.

“You won’t take him away from me!” she cries and throws herself at the other woman.

America is able to block and evade, but with her injured leg her movements are slowing just as Belarus seems to be as well. While she does put up a good fight, she loses the upper hand when Belarus comes to use her injury against her. She kicks her knee inward, and America falls to the floor with a startled cry.

Belarus pins her to the floor, straddles her stomach and keeps her from moving. America flails, struggles, does not let up in an attempt to free herself. Though Belarus is relentless, and she grips onto the woman’s wrists with such strength and holds her down that America believes she will snap as if she was nothing more than a twig.

“I don’t care,” she says. “I don’t care what he wants, or what he says, or the punishment he will deal to me, you do not deserve him.”

America feels her nails lengthen against her skin and kicks her legs. She will not lose, she will not end this way!

It’s almost as if she had conjured a saving grace. Suddenly, Belarus goes flying from her. She drags America with her partly as she’s jerked back and is sent hurtling into a wall. Her absolute scream of terror is the proof she has to know it was not planned. America wastes no time in righting herself, but just as quickly as she has been freed, she’s pushed down again. Only this time, it is Russia Braginsky that has the honor.

America flails for her fallen dagger and just as before, her arm is taken and pinned down to the floor. She can hear Canada calling out for her to be left alone in the background, but only faintly. She’s more focused on the man’s face coming closer to hers. It’s mostly out of shock that she remains so still.

"America Jones," he says. "I want you alive."

America, wide-eyed and feeling fear for the first time in a long time, is unable to do anything other than brace herself for the sudden impact of a blunt object hitting the side of her head. The force has her spin. There’s nothing after that.

Her first loss.

**Author's Note:**

> -i know i have a journal filled with things for this world. there's a lot of world building. so much that i considered making it an original fic instead.
> 
> -sometimes i still think that. 
> 
> -most of the time though i toss the idea aside because y'know. vampires.


End file.
